


In the Lap of the Gods

by HollyFell (Thornvale)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: A Distinct Lack of Brain Cells, Abandonment, Alcohol, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Angel Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale Presents as Male, Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Betrayal, Character Death, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Presents As Female, Crowley Presents as Male, Crowley's Bentley (Good Omens), Demon Aziraphale (Good Omens), Depression, Falling In Love, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), Grief/Mourning, Historical Inaccuracy, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Moral Dilemmas, Murder, Music, Name Changes, No Armageddon Plot, Nonbinary Character, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Protective Crowley (Good Omens), References to Drugs, References to Sex, Reverse Omens, The Bentley Ships It (Good Omens), Victorian, Violence, finding happiness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-12
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-18 20:09:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29988207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thornvale/pseuds/HollyFell
Summary: Crowley is Chamuel, Archangel in theory and Heaven’s agent on Earth for the past four-thousand-and-something years, but his purpose and reason for being still eludes him.Aziraphale is Azazel, a tempestuous demon with a ghastly past that is seemingly fresh on the scene and raring to fight for his newly earned position on Earth.Upon the grim extinction of Chamuel’s former adversary, the pair come to an Arrangement that sees them moving together through modern history, attempting to make sense of who they are and what it means to find a home where they least expect it.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9





	In the Lap of the Gods

**City of Westminster**

**1880**

**(The year Things start to happen)**

  
  


Heaven had scored yet another victory.

Or, rather … the Archangel Chamuel had ensured it.

More accurately, Chamuel was in London at the time of increasing reformation and had been in receipt of several accolades for his outstanding work, when _really_ it had just been the work of humans the entire time. 

The _Elementary Education Act 1880_ had just passed within the Houses of Parliament, making it compulsory for all children to attend school and receive an education. It was thanks to Chamuel’s friend, the one Anthony John Mundella, that such a thing had come to pass. Chamuel had afforded the politician a few blessings here and there, although his main task was, as always, to thwart the ever lingering threat of corruption lanced into the hearts of men by his demonic adversary.

Certain other politicians and newspapers thought compulsory education was something very un-English, indeed. They feared change. They wanted to continue extorting the labour of the poor, to provide unsafe and unclean conditions for women and children. They feared Anthony John Mundella and his supposedly radical ideas.

It all was, of course, just the beginning of many turning points in the Earth’s history.

There, outside of the Houses of Parliament, Chamuel stood among a crowd of working class. They were jovial - a rarity in these times - chatting animatedly among each other, and when Mundella himself made a brief appearance at the old, stone archway that led inside, the people loudly cheered in celebration. 

Mundella raised a hand and nodded amicably towards them, smiling. He was about to step back inside, though paused when his eyes easily landed upon Chamuel stood calmly in the crowd. His smile broadened and he placed his hands together as though in prayer, and then he disappeared.

Pleased with his day’s work (or lack thereof), Chamuel meandered out of the crowd just in time to see a tall, suited man standing on the other side of the long road that ran past the Palace of Westminster. Bright violet eyes reached through the distance to scour Chamuel’s person. The man had seemingly walked out of the sunlight itself; the energies he radiated were very similar, warm and insistent and, at times, unbearable.

Chamuel would never admit to that last part, of course. He waited for a few carriages to pass before jogging across the road to greet his superior with a short nod of his head, faintly surprised.

“Gabriel,” he greeted, folding his hands neatly behind his back. “Have you come to enjoy the city, then?”

Archangel Gabriel briefly glanced around him, notably unimpressed with what he found. He lightly snorted, then reached into an inner pocket of his expensive cashmere overcoat, producing a faintly golden piece of paper. He pressed it into Chamuel’s chest.

“Not my scene, I’m afraid. I’ve come to personally congratulate you for a job well done. Things certainly seem to be picking up, don’t they?”

“Er, well, there’s still -“

“So, here’s your brand spankin’ new commendation. Just in time for your performance review in six Earth years. How about that?” Gabriel winked and clapped his hand heavily on Chamuel’s shoulder. “Don’t worry about sending off a report this month. My treat. I can see that you have everything well enough under control. Although …”

Tensing slightly, Chamuel gripped his hands tightly at the small of his back and waited. There was _always_ a bloody ‘although’.

“... It does seem as though there’s a certain influence still hovering about.” Gabriel waggled a finger down towards the pavement, pulling the face of one who couldn’t place the smell of dog shit festering on his shoe. “What’s the story there, then, bud? I mean, this guy’s been giving you grief for a long, long time. Doncha think you should put him in his place before he starts ruining all this hard work of yours? Just a suggestion. You’re the expert on this place, of course.”

It certainly was not a mere suggestion.

“Er …” Chamuel began unsurely, trying not to show his confusion. “I mean, I’ve discorporated him several times since -“

“Right, right. Discorporated. That’s great. Tell you what.” Gabriel steepled his fingers at his chin, eyes narrowing with thought. “Tell you what, why don’t we take things up a notch, Cam? We all know how good you are at thwarting, so I’ll set you a new objective. Y’know, give you the opportunity to develop and grow, ‘cause you never know, Cam-Cam, maybe you can stand up there with us Archangels, one day. How about that?”

“Alright, yeah, but I am _technically_ a -“

“Archangels preside over the Third Sphere, remember? You can’t do that while stuck here on Earth, can you? As Prince of the Archangels, I want my coll- _family_ back together again. This work here, it’s …” Gabriel scrunched his nose up and shook his head, “... it’s more suited to a Principality, right? D’ya really want to be doing the work of a Principality forever? Thought not.”

“Well, it’s not -“

“So, here’s the tea. You’ve done a good job, but levels of demonic activity down here are frankly off the charts. Higher than they’ve ever been. No wonder you look so tired, champ.”

“I - what?” Chamuel spluttered, caught off guard. Surprised by the news, he gaped at Gabriel in disbelief. “That can’t be -“

“Would I lie to my favourite lesser Archangel, Cam-Cam? I was as shocked as you were to see the data. For the past five years, demonic activity has seen a violent incline. It suggests that their agent has become either more bold, more powerful, or that he isn’t alone. Whatever the case, they’re cheating. So, your new side project is to make mince-meat outta that good-for-nothing Hellspawn once and for all. Do _whatever_ it takes to keep Heaven’s grip strong and intimidating down here. Comprendé?”

Oh, Chamuel comprehended, alright. He had known Gabriel long enough that he was able to read between the lines and figure out exactly what it was his superior wanted on any occasion. In this instance, it seemed to be the … total eradication of Hell’s demon agent, Chamuel’s long-time adversary.

 _Nachash_. The Serpent. The traitor. The cruel, power-hungry contrast to Chamuel’s calm complacency. The very scourge of humanity.

Gabriel famously _hated_ the demon. Not only had the serpent gotten a one-up on Heaven by tempting Adam and Eve into betraying the Almighty’s commands, he also often flaunted the fact he had been Hell’s specialised agent on Earth since the very dawn of time. Chamuel was in fact the second, his predecessor having been defeated by Nachash before the Great Flood.

It wasn’t as though Nachash going extinct would be a bad thing, but although Chamuel was often venerated as an angel of courage and war and all that came with it, the truth was that he wasn’t actually very _good_ at it. He wasn’t really designed for fighting and killing, and so his efforts were rather more underhanded and perhaps even unenthusiastic. 

Luckily, all Heaven really cared about was results, not the means by which they were achieved.

 _Extinction_ , though? 

“Well, er, what about Hell?” He offered, deepening his voice so that he didn’t sound intimidated. Instead, it cracked and heightened somewhat. “Won’t killing him make them want to … I don’t know, take vengeance? What if it kickstarts some kind of war?”

Somehow, Gabriel found amusement in that and chuffed with laughter, annoyingly incredulous.

“A war! They won’t start a _war_ , Chamuel. Not after last time. They don’t have the balls for that, y’know. They were neutered the moment their wings burned. They’re not _like_ us. They’re plain old incapable! They definitely won’t even think about squarin’ up to a lean, mean fighting machine like you. Trust me.” 

With that, Gabriel pretended to punch Chamuel’s shoulder. He finger-gunned, clicked his tongue, and then took an elegant step backwards in preparation to Travel.

It took all of Chamuel’s willpower not to cringe externally. Feeling more than a bit confused and lost following the news, he restrained a deep sigh and watched as the Archangel began to glow with a vibrant light - unseen, of course, by the pedestrians that miraculously did not notice anything strange going on.

“You got all that, right? Good. See you in six years for your review, champ.”

Gabriel turned his head to the Heavens, and then in a flash of light he was gone, leaving behind a pleasant but somewhat sharp scent of expensive German cologne. And wildflowers. Always wildflowers. It always made Chamuel want to sneeze.

When he found himself alone once more, he looked down at the shimmery piece of paper in his gloved fingers and held it up to the light, only able to read the translucent ink when the sunshine reflected off it.

_Venerable Archangel Chamuel, Angel of Courage, War, and Divine Love, Blessed be Your Name._

_Congratulations on the passing of the Elemental Education Act! Your achievement has been recognised by the Angelic Host. May you continue to bring glory to God and all those who serve in Her name._

_Yours,_

_The Archangels._

  
  


He stared at the commendation and felt an ever present disappointment return to the fore, as it had many times. In fact, he felt it so often that it had long since made a home within his celestial consciousness, ever reminding him to never expect anything good to come of his situation.

 _Elemental?!_ They couldn’t even get the damned name of it right! That place had to be falling apart without him up there after well over four-thousand years of his absence. Not that he’d ever really played a leadership sort of role within the Third Sphere. Sometimes, it was just nice to fantasise about what could have been, and what _could_ be. 

And Gabriel seemed to know it. Maybe that was why he kept dangling the idea of a glorious return to Heaven before Chamuel’s eyes, only to keep deterring with additional objectives and side projects. He was right: the duty of guarding and guiding humanity _was_ far more in line with a Principality’s sword-wielding, inspiration-giving skill set, whereas a spirit that was an Archangel in name and not in practice with no idea _what_ he was supposed to be the angel of, exactly … Well.

Things hadn’t always been that way. Things had been better. Before time began and Earth and humanity were created, that is. 

Maybe things would be different this time. If Gabriel held true to his words, all Chamuel had to do was exact God’s wrath and render an old enemy extinct to earn his spot back in Heaven once and for all.

Easier said than done, but it wasn’t like he had a choice in the matter. At least it would break up the monotony of his life on Earth somewhat.

Finally unleashing his pent up sigh, Archangel Chamuel scuffed a foot agitatedly on the pavement, folded the commendation into his pocket, and moved on to go about his day.  
  


* * *

**Kensington**

**1882**

**(The year it comes to blows)**

  
  


“I was thinking of getting away to Switzerland.”

Chamuel, who was lost in thought and idly stirring at the tea in a china cup before him, took a moment to acknowledge that he was being spoken to. Glancing up, he took one look at the deceptively stern countenance of Mundella before quickly glancing away again.

“I beg your pardon?” He said with haste, ever the gentleman. 

“I said, I was thinking of a holiday to Switzerland. Clear the London smog from my old lungs, you know. I do adore that part of the world, it must be said. The mountains there are touched with the Heavens. It is almost like stepping back in time, indeed, before revolution and endless political machinations.” Anthony John Mundella peered over his glasses at his companion, flicking out the spread of his newspaper loudly to further draw Chamuel’s attention.

It was a bright Summer’s day. Glorious, even. Outside of the high-end eatery in the middle of Kensington, an Archangel and a politician sat companionably and enjoyed the hustle and bustle of the world around them. Fine ladies and gentlemen wandered the lush, clean parks and admired the noble architecture, their routes aimless. Chamuel could hear their many conversations with ease and cared nothing for them.

“Switzerland’s nice,” he commented politely.

“Oh? Have you been?”

“Nope.”

Mundella’s eyebrows twitched. He folded his newspaper and turned his attention to his own tea, pouring himself a little more from the shared pot between them.

“It’s one of my favourite things, to explore the world beyond with my family,” he said pointedly, though kindly. “There are people on this little island of ours who seem to think that here is all there is. Somehow, they think it’s better than anything else that lies across the sea. We are a remarkably short-sighted people. Ambitious, indeed, but short-sighted in other ways.”

“D’you think so?”

“Oh, yes. You only need to read _The Times_ to see it. It’s unfortunate when such a mindset affects the younger, more able generation, however. Take your fine self as an example. Such a bright fellow, fair in face, but yet unmarried and untraveled. What takes your interest besides horticulture and watching the world go by?”

Considering, Chamuel subtly looked about until his gaze landed upon the elegant signage outside of the quaint little eatery. _The Gelding’s Cavort._

“Horses,” he said quickly, hoping the conversation would drift to an easier topic.

“Oh! Do you ride, then?”

“Er …” the angel fiddled with the handle of his cup and folded his legs. “I ‘spose I’ve done it a couple of times. Ages ago, actually. Wouldn’t remember much about it. Never mind.”

Mundella stared, his brow creasing, and then a small smile emerged just beyond his generous grey beard.

“You’re something of a dark horse yourself, you know. Sometimes I wonder why you don’t have a nice lady friend keeping you company, and then I talk with you and remember that you like to give nothing of yourself away.” The man chortled good-naturedly, though did reach forwards to briefly pat Chamuel’s forearm. “You’ve always listened to me rattle on like a broken range ever since I met you here those five years ago! You haven’t changed a bit, sir. Although, you _are_ looking tired.”

It was a mysterious truth. Chamuel saw it whenever he looked in a mirror to neaten his well-groomed red hair. The hazel-gold of his eyes was unusually dull, these days, flanked by the puffy dark of a weariness he couldn’t put his finger on. His corporation was in perfect working order and he felt nothing resembling pain, so he simply put it down to worrying, instead.

“‘M just fine,” he insisted. “Absolutely fine. It’s probably just … work. That’s all. Demanding bosses. Wily competition. Just the usual, really. I was thinking of taking up coffee.”

There was a pause wherein Mundella’s eyes went momentarily off-focus. His mouth was open and poised to ask a question, but thankfully - miraculously - he decided against it, shook his head, and laughed as if Chamuel had just graced him with a wonderful joke. He was not entirely distracted, however, and he leaned in a little way, patting his friend’s forearm once more.

“I might be a Member of Parliament, Chamuel, but I am not all bad. You found me here lost in thought, once. Positively away with the fairies, wondering if I was doing the right thing, if I was even on the right path. A silly moment of doubt rectified the moment I looked upon your face and decided to strike conversation! If you ever need a listening ear …”

The words lended themselves to a strange sensation. Chamuel considered them. It wasn’t the first time mere spoken words had elicited a strange feeling in the pit of his corporation’s chest where a needless heart was beating, and it frustrated him somewhat. He was an angel, not a human, his very being and mind were incomprehensibly vast and magnificent, but when it came to something like the strange little things his corporation sometimes did, he still didn’t understand exactly what it all meant and why _he_ had to feel it.

Guilt? Gratitude? He had no idea. Sometimes, things were so alarmingly similar that he had no idea how humans could tell them apart. What did it matter to him when all he had to do was issue comfort and happiness to others on occasion?

“Thank you, Anthony,” was all he could think to say just then, doing his utmost to put a note of enthusiasm in his voice. He did genuinely like Mundella, after all. They had spent many hours shooting the breeze in fancy places like _The Gelding’s Cavort_ since they’d met, forgetting the world for a while. He called Chamuel his friend, and Chamuel supposed that Mundella was his friend, too. 

Mundella leaned back in his seat, his smile fading away. He nodded slowly in acknowledgement.

“Do not take offence, but sometimes I worry for you, living alone in that flat. One can speak to plants but that doesn’t always make them good company.”

Chamuel pulled a face at that, then shrugged as nonchalantly as possible.

“Honestly. I’m just fine. I have everything I could possibly want and need here, and more. You know, when I’m done with work I just like to go home ‘n …” he trailed off and shrugged a second time. There was that dull ache in his chest again, slightly different from moments ago. He had no idea what it was he was feeling, and he didn’t care to think about it further.

“Well, why don’t you … yes, why don’t you join my family and I on our next adventure, hm? Come and see Switzerland with us! My dear wife and daughters would love to have you! Take the time to see a place that isn’t London, my friend, and indeed, escape from work for a time! It’s all I see when I look at your face. Plain worry. Or sometimes even nothing at all.”

A strange look passed over Mundella’s face again. He appeared momentarily confused, glancing about him, and then he relaxed and took another sip of his tea, smiling as if he had just heard something mildly amusing. He continued:

“Oh! I didn’t see you there, Chamuel! You’re as quiet as a mouse! Fancy bumping into you here again. Strange how that always seems to happen, isn’t it? Not that I’m complaining, dear boy, I do enjoy your company … Say, I was meaning to tell you that I’ll be disappearing off to Switzerland very soon, I should think.”

Their conversation resumed from the beginning with no forays into uncomfortable territory, this time. 

The pleasant afternoon passed slowly without a hitch. Their easy talk was light and unburdened, and they shared small moments of laughter as the world passed by, forgetting their work and any troubles in the places they were to return to. When the sunlight began to dwindle beyond a grey, looming cloud, they both eventually stood and donned their hats and coats, guarding themselves from the sudden chill in the evening air.

Mundella returned to his family as the sun began to set. Though Chamuel did not travel with him, he ensured that the carriage ride was smooth and that his friend returned to a warm hearth. The Archangel intended to return home that evening, too, to where his own family of many flawless potted plants awaited.

There, he would try to pinpoint the exact location of his demonic adversary, who was still out and about in full force, wily and sneaky and somehow always one step ahead. Chamuel could sense him as easily as he could smell the wafts of acrid factory smoke blowing in on the rising breeze. Spurts of demonic power, flitting here, there, and everywhere, all the time. Whenever Chamuel appeared to complete the task set to him by Gabriel, Nachash was already gone, his cruel work afflicted upon the mortal world.

To the serpent, it was all a fun game of cat and mouse - except to his frustration, the cat wasn’t particularly enthusiastic about the matter. Chamuel was fully aware of the role he was supposed to play and that he wasn’t _exactly_ doing his very best to do what Gabriel had asked. 

It was ridiculous. He knew that. Nachash was seemingly his one key back to the grand gateway of Heaven, and all he had to do was … make him extinct. Easier said than done, perhaps, but not all that difficult; Nachash was clever, but hot-headed and rash and probably easily duped. However, Chamuel was the one whose schemes were always foiled. Time and time again, the mouse evaded the soft paws of the cat and laughed when it retreated to the safety of its den.

Extinction. Wasn’t it just another word for execution? Chamuel stood alone outside _The Gelding’s Cavort_ like so many days before, deeply considering the nature of what it was he had to do. What would Anthony Mundella think if he knew? Would he think Chamuel a coward for delaying the inevitable? Would he perhaps even think him a murderer?

He almost scoffed at that. A murderer! It was impossible, really, wasn’t it? Heaven was Heaven, and he was an Archangel, a child of God without a fault to his name. It was impossible to do wrong when his actions were explicitly designed to be unquestionably the right thing.

And that was a can of worms he really didn’t want to open. He wouldn’t so much as poke it with a ten-foot long barge pole.

Chamuel sighed. Closed his eyes. Told himself to get it together, like so many times before. If he was yet to repair his standing in the eyes of Heaven, then so be it. As much as he detested the thought of fighting anyone, it was time to stop beating about the bush. 

But first, a quiet drink at home. Maybe he would even treat himself to something alcoholic.

Just one. 

Two, if his corporation remained on edge. 

The day was marked in his diary. The many following pages were empty because he had nothing else planned for afterwards. No blessings, no healings. Nothing at all. It wouldn’t be _his_ job anymore if he did this one thing right, and how hard could it be to get that one thing wrong? 

Chamuel, Almighty Archangel of Something or Other, walked the short walk to his Kensington flat and sat between a pair of ferns with a crystal tumbler in his long, elegant fingers. He stared out of the window and watched as the sky darkened with rain clouds, smog, and the clockwork blanket of night.

* * *

  
  


**Brighton**

**1882**

**(The same night, but vaguely intoxicated)**

  
  


Using holy magic to travel quickly about the Earth was generally frowned upon. If an angel didn’t properly calculate together trajectory, gravity, matter, and margin for error, there were too many things that could go wrong, short of a quick-thinking miracle. The Archangels could go Travelling willy-nilly however they liked, free to bounce between Heaven and Earth and its various cities as needed, whereas the angels, lowercase archangels, and Principalities were often required to travel via human means as to not earn themselves a strongly worded letter from Management. 

Chamuel being an uppercase Archangel was more of a technicality. Until he was stood up there with his siblings with a fresh purpose and responsibility, he didn’t quite have the same luxuries as they did. 

While there was fine aged brandy flowing through his veins and a demon on the loose, however, technicalities were just that. 

He was met with a blast of cold sea air. The street he’d landed in was entirely unfamiliar. The architecture was old and glistening with the rainfall, almost entirely entrenched in darkness. Chamuel raised a hand and pulled divinity down from the heavens, lighting the crooked street with a gentle, pale gold. The use of magic did nothing to quell the immediate waft of something demonic lingering within the shadows nearby.

To the Archangel’s surprise, the presence lingered. Nachash usually would have fled the scene by then, either to disappear back down to Hell or to cause trouble elsewhere and invite his angelic nemesis on a wild chase across the UK. Chamuel was slightly too drunk and really too tired to endure such a thing again. He was tired of Earth, tired of being without his _true_ purpose and reason for being. He was tired of Nachash and of Hell and its wicked denizens who sought to undo all his hard work. 

They wouldn’t hold him back anymore. 

Chamuel crossed the slippery road and made for the church opposite. Its red brick glowed ominously beneath his summoned light and its windows were dark, an entity in of itself looming in the stormy night, forcing the hair on Chamuel’s arms to stand on end despite the sanctity of the consecrated ground. 

_St. Michael and All Angels Church,_ the sign read. Curious. Consecration was actively harmful to demons and anything unholy, scorching at sinful flesh. Any religiously sanctified place provided a stronghold against the forces of Hell, and so it was extremely unusual to sense any sort of demonic activity unfolding near them. 

Stranger yet, it seemed to be coming from _within_. 

Confused, he knelt down and touched the stone steps beneath his feet. Perfectly consecrated. The warm, homely energy tickled the tips of his fingers and palm, unblemished. Confused and increasingly wary, he rose and flicked a finger towards the arching wooden door ahead, unlocking it with a quiet click.

The divine light adorning the street behind him went out. Cloaked in darkness, Chamuel crept into the church and eased the door closed behind him, sealing away the rest of the world. He waved a hand again, and all the candles situated on walls and on the stone altar ahead lit with a golden flourish to brighten the dim innards of the church.

It was a young build, and beautifully done. If he’d had the time, Chamuel would have stopped to admire the artistry behind the stone and the stained glass windows, and would have been mildly perplexed to find himself depicted on the glass as one of several Archangels. The hair colour was slightly off and his nose was certainly the wrong shape, but he would acknowledge that it was still a pleasant feeling to find himself depicted in human art.

As it was, he never saw it. 

“Ch-Chamuel?” Somebody hissed desperately.

Chamuel stopped at the back of the church, gazing down the length of the aisle in surprise. That _somebody_ was Nachash, the serpent demon that had served as his biggest hurdle for millennia, the very fiend of cunning and cruelty responsible for some of Chamuel’s various discorporations through the years. He was the Unseen, the Great Tempter, the hand of Satan Himself on Earth. He was truly irredeemable, unforgivable, and actively _relished_ it.

He was also trapped in a salt ring.

Situated before the altar, the demon was performing a tortured dance as he jumped between his feet. The bottoms of his trousers and his scuffed shoes were smoking slightly as he jigged in a small circle, and the agonised expression on his face spoke of the unbearable pain he must have been enduring. His serpentine features, usually callous and cold and often smug, were twisted with urgency and even what might have been _fear_. His greenish-yellow eyes were blown wide, the animalistic nature of his demonic form threatening to burst through, if only the magic keeping him contained would allow it.

Chamuel didn’t move, immediately suspicious.

“It’s y-you! Oh, thank Satan you’re here! I never thought I’d actually be pleased to see you!” Nachash blubbered, trying to reach a scaly hand past the ring and runes of salt keeping him pinned in that one spot. There was a flash of red, and he immediately snatched his hand back with a pained howl. “Oouch! Look, Ch-Chamuel. Help a pal out. We’re pals, right? It was all … all just a few jokes between friendsss, r-right? Get me outta here and I won’t go back to London. I swear on our ol’ Mum. It’ll be all yoursss. N- _ow_ \- nobody has to know this - _owww!_ \- even happened!”

Disturbed by the sight before him, Chamuel slowly reached for the inside of his overcoat. From the magical inner pocket therein he pulled the hilt of a very old, very battered sword - his weapon issued to him by Heaven when he first descended. The thing was practically falling apart, vacant of a holy power that had once lingered within its core, but it was still sharp enough to pose a threat even if it was far from being an appropriate weapon for an Archangel.

“N-no!” Nachash moaned, a glint of recognition in his eyes when he saw the blade. “No, don’t get that bloody thing out! You’ll just make everything worssse!”

Chamuel scowled and moved carefully forwards, holding the sword somewhere about his shoulder (nobody but Nachash knew he didn’t have the foggiest idea how to use it). 

“Shut it. Who the Hell’s gotten to you before I did?”

“The _…_ that good for nothin’, rotten … He trapped me ‘ere and went off somewhere ‘cause he got bloody hungry, so ‘e says! The bloke’s an absolute creature! Get me outta here you lanky, poxy little goody-two-shoes. I meant good on what I said, I’ll leave that preciousss city of yours alone!”

Chamuel stopped, and he considered. Exactly two years ago to the day, Gabriel had said thus:

_For the past five years, demonic activity has seen a violent incline. It suggests that their agent has become either more bold, more powerful, or that he isn’t alone._

Right. So it seemed that one or all of Gabriel’s guesses were correct - that there was another demon causing trouble on Earth, one that was potentially even smarter and more dangerous than Nachash himself. This new rogue demon must have tailed Nachash and travelled wherever he went, masking his presence with the serpent’s own. But why?

Demons were brutal and thuggish, Chamuel knew, often betraying each other and fighting amongst themselves in an eternal clamour for power and glory. They were crude and disorderly, the very antithesis to the noble angels and their holy cause. It hardly surprised him that somebody had betrayed Nachash and was torturing him on consecrated ground, but who was brave or foolish enough to turn against their own kind so brazenly?

Two years ago, Gabriel had _also_ said thus:

_You never know, Cam-Cam, maybe you can stand up there with us Archangels, one day. How about that?_

And there Nachash was, barely able to take a single step, certainly unable to escape. The demon likely saw a change in the Archangel’s eyes, then, for his face fell and he took a small, jittery step back to the rear of the occult circle, frightened enough to briefly forgo his pained dance.

“Naw. Come on, pal. Buddy. I’m almost impressed. Really! It takes a particular sort to kick a demon while he’s down, don’t it? I mean, an angel definitely wouldn’t do somethin’ like that. Imagine! Her special favourites t-trapping their own brother like a rat and squashin’ it. Whatta big, brave thing to do! I know you’re better than that, Chamuel, me ol’ friend. Just … just break the ring with a little notch. That’s all. I’ll get outta your hair. Quickly, before he comesss back!”

Chamuel was in the process of extracting something else from his inner pocket. His fingers landed on the cork top of a jar. Beneath that cork top was enough holy water to execute a demon and erase the very soul and essence of the twisted being on which it landed. 

For an Archangel of War, Chamuel had a surprising lack of blood on his hands.

None at all, in fact.

The jar emerged. Slowly kneeling, he left the decrepit sword on the stone tiles and rose again, fingers twitching about the cork.

One movement of his arm. That was all it would take. One dousing of holy water, and he would wipe away the one responsible for so many foul and dire things to befall humanity. The demon did indeed have blood on his own hands, something for which he was supposedly held in high regard for among his brethren Downstairs. 

War. War. _War_ . Wrath. Vengeance. _Something_ . He repeated the words over and over in his head, trying to invoke whatever mastery over conflict he was supposed to have. It could all be over in the blink of an eye! All he had to do was - and then he would _finally_ \- if only he could find the strength he needed to just -

His hesitation lasted just two seconds too long.

Chamuel never found out whether he was capable of emptying that jar of holy water over his ancient nemesis’ head. Although he knew the act might have paved his way back to Heaven, something had stopped him - a clamouring in the back of his mind, an undeniable fear that what he was doing … what he had been asked to do just might have been … wrong? Was it all a test to see whether he chose the right thing to do? _Was_ there a right thing? 

He looked up and met the gentle gaze of the Mother of Sorrows. Her fair face was carved from wood, but she almost seemed to come to life when the candle flames flickered and shadows were cast about her.

The church door was loudly kicked open from the outside.

An oddly warm wind blasted into the church. Rain blew onto the stone floor, gently pattering. Despite the holy power protecting the space from all that was unholy, there came a palpable rise in the infernal energy skulking about in the background. 

Chamuel turned, and there in the archway yonder he saw a broad figure intruding. The stranger - the demon - began to take determined strides into the light, and there was such an aura of sheer rage about the way he carried himself that it was hardly surprising the consecrated ground did not seem to bother him as it should have, merely flinching at each step.

The demon flung his top hat off his head as he headed for the aisle. A dread transformation took place, then, an enormous affront in the middle of a sacred place: pointed horns emerged from his mess of dark curls, arcing slightly towards the back of his head. A long and impish furry black tail emerged from the rear split in his tattered overcoat, pronged at the tip, and it swished back and forth agitatedly. His wings emerged, too, the unruly feathers as black as a raven’s, though some of them glowed orange at the tips and smoked like a hundred bonfires, as though he was constantly in danger of catching alight.

His eyes were the worst. When he yanked off his sunglasses, Chamuel saw that he had horizontal goat-like slits for pupils framed by a blood crimson. That ghastly red seemed to stretch across his eyes the closer he came, glowing hot with infernal embers. And then another pair of red eyes, previously unseen, opened on his forehead as potent waves of eldritch anger rolled off him, exposing more and more of his true nature before the eyes of God.

Chamuel had not planned for this.

He held up the jar of holy water as a warning and took an awkward step into the pews to make way. To his surprise, the demon reached out and snatched the jar straight from his hand as he passed by, his disturbing gaze dead-set on Nachash before the altar.

It all felt to be a dream - or, at least, what Chamuel imagined dreams might feel like, watching something strange and disturbing from a small distance with no knowledge of what would happen next. Though the stranger’s ire was seemingly not directed at him, he remained engaged with the scene unfolding out of surprise, wariness, and a rare curiosity.

And for the fact the holy water was now in a demon’s hands, too.

Nachash was positively beside himself with fear. He bounced between the invisible, scorching walls of the ring he occupied, then cowered as the other demon stopped directly before him. (Both of them entered a subtle little dance to ease the pain at their feet which might have been amusing if not for the situation at hand.)

“Alright! Alright, you got me!” Nachash sang out, plainly terrified. He held out his clawed hands in a show of surrender. “Silly ol’ me, lettin’ myself get caught up in this neat little spell o’ yours! You can’t - you know they’ll destroy you for this, right? I’m hot stuff down there. Employee of the month one hundred-and three-consecutive months in a row! An’ what about you? Ya don’t think Beelzebub will ‘ave you for this?”

The stranger’s black claws dug into the cork of the jar and pried it off with ease. There was no hesitancy. Nothing that might have indicated he was burdened by the decision he was making.

Then again, he _was_ a demon. Death was sort of in the job description one way or another.

“If it’s all the same to you,” he said, his surprisingly refined voice tense and roughened with a sinister growl, “I’ll be taking this opportunity now that our good angel friend is here to take the blame - or perhaps the credit is more accurate. Anyway, as you can imagine, I’m not here to exact _idle chit-chat_ upon you. Better buck up one last time, old boy.”

“N-no! Look, Azazel! I’m sorry! I was just havin’ fun with you back then, you know that, don’t you? I got told to mess with ya, so I did! Just - just put the holy water down. I’m sssorry! There, I said it! That’s what you wanted, right? Me to humiliate myself by apologisin’? I’ll do it a thousssand times more if you let me outta this damned circle!”

The other demon - Azazel - tilted his head lightly, perhaps considering the offer. However, he soon leant in just a few centimetres shy of the salt ring and smiled a smile that probably inspired a sudden feeling of foreboding in a few-hundred nearby humans. 

“O Tempter,” he purred, smooth as silk, though his tail swished sharply. He adopted an unnerving, oddly playful tone. “ _‘Tis one thing to be tempted, another thing to fall._ Now to finally take what is mine.”

Chamuel was stunned, wondering how his schedule had happened to line up with such a personal confrontation between two demons. Whatever the story was between them, he was sure he absolutely did not want to know.

He looked away, startled when Azazel did the impossible and wiped the Universe clean of the stain Nachash had left upon it.

He heard water hitting the floor. And then there came a head-splitting scream that transcended the mortal realm, extending into the Yonder to shriek and attempt to pull down the very Heavens with the sound. In the material world, Nachash’s bubbling howls of agony eventually drowned away as his corporation and spirit were presumably melted into nothingness.

Chamuel’s stomach felt tight. It hurt, beginning to churn and grumble. The rest of him became cold and it was momentarily difficult to move and to even collect his thoughts on the matter, for they all seemed to have scattered like butterflies. 

Unable to free his immediate memory of the horrific sounds he had just endured, he slowly turned back to look at the spot where Nachash had once stood. Upon the ground there, a bubbling pile of ectoplasm mingled with the salt and it steamed, quickly drying up until there was nothing left but a whisper of dust.

Azazel lifted the edge of the rug near his feet and kicked the dust underneath it. He shared a short, terse glance with the stone crucifix hanging over the altar, and then he abruptly turned to begin a pained dance towards the nearest pew. The demon boasted exceptional balance; he climbed onto the back of the pew with a single step and walked his way across them towards the back of the church, stopping only briefly to look at the sword still lying abandoned by Chamuel’s feet.

His demonic appearance shifted away, leaving there a man who appeared mostly normal save for the lingering, angry red of his irises. (Only the one pair, thankfully.) He pulled his sunglasses from his coat and slid them back on, disappearing behind them. 

“Hand-me-downs,” he said mysteriously, and then he tutted. “It doesn’t even work anymore, does it?”

“What?” Chamuel questioned numbly, unsure whether he was supposed to be fighting the demon or letting him go about his business. After all, the creature hadn’t shown _him_ any sort of malice, which was all sorts of backwards, really.

“The _sword_. Obviously.”

“Uhhngk,” was all the Archangel managed. 

Azazel might have even looked sympathetic for a moment, though it was difficult to tell past his glasses.

“Quite. Well, a pleasure, I’m sure. No doubt we will meet again in unfortunate circumstances. Oh, and …” Azazel began walking across the pews again. He waved dismissively as he went, then secured his hands tightly behind his back as he stepped down and leapt the short distance back to the door. “Enjoy your commendation.”

And Chamuel was suddenly left alone. The door creaked shut, and the world fell into abrupt silence.

He was speechless. Truly. He had never seen an extinction first hand. In fact, he was certain the last one had happened during the Great Rebellion, for which he was not present. Demons could be extinguished by holy water and powerful holy weapons, just as angels could be incinerated by hellfire and weapons forged in its flame. 

Raising his eyebrows, he swallowed thickly and looked up to meet the many holy eyes upon him. Those figures, whether cast in wood, stone, or glass, all regarded him in utter silence, offering no counsel or clarity. Instead, Chamuel was left to wade through a rising storm of emotions he couldn’t connect to and try to figure out whether what had happened was very, very good or exceedingly bad. 

No more Nachash. No more nasty tricks and surprise discorporations. That chapter had come to a sudden close and now the door had opened unto another even less predictable future.

He wanted his flat and his plants. He wanted another drink. Maybe then things would begin to make some sense.

Chamuel slowly stepped over the rug before the altar, careful not to touch it. He did not take the time to pray or even attempt a connection to the Almighty in that moment. What would he have said to Her, exactly? Maybe blather on a bit about his desire to go Home and why it meant a boiling a demon alive, or maybe a short verbal debate on the matter? Debates and conversations tended to be one-sided endeavours, these days.

So, he picked up the sword and the empty jar and ventured out into the storm to find his way back home. His stomach was still twisting uncomfortably the entire while and he even felt queasy at times, like all the blood was rushing out of his head. He tasted brandy on the back of his tongue.

However, that night he came to rest more easily than he had for a long time. 

**Author's Note:**

> Please excuse any capitalisation errors, this is all written on an iPad.
> 
> Idk where this is going but hope you enjoy!


End file.
